Goodbye
by Oktarin
Summary: When I look at her I should feel nothing less than hate. I shouldn't love his girl; I shouldn't love the enemy.


When I look at her I should feel nothing less than hate.

I should feel that familiar burn and determination, the stirring in my being calling for action, for blood to spill, blood that is not innocent, blood that is not good, blood that is not my own kind's. I should want to tear apart the flesh that she is lucky enough to have, the curves of her waist that show how well she is fed, the pink to her cheeks that show how healthy she is; all of these beautiful things that she does not deserve.

I should hate her as much as I hate the rest of them. I should long to have her head, hold her heart in my hand in the literal sense, not figurative.

I should not feel a burn that is unfamiliar, the stirrings in my chest that I have not had since a tiny little girl with eyes that glowed like the blossoming green that graces this wonderful place, the one that I watched slip away, watched deteriorate, just like the rest of the life that left generations before me. I should not be filled with a determination to hold her close, to call her mine. I should not want to run my hands through thick red hair, the color of blood against snow, so rich and beautiful. I should not want to press my lips to her miles of perfect, perfect, pink skin, to run my hands down to that delicate curve of her waist, to see how much of that pink I can bring to her cheeks. I should not want to give her the world, the world that she is destroying and the one that has already died.

I should want her to be alone, be without the boy, simply because she deserves it, not because of jealousy.

I shouldn't love this girl; I shouldn't love the enemy.

Yet again I find myself suffering at her hand, no, suffering because of my weakness. I am weary, my muscles tired and my head throbbing, and I know she must be too. But we're both stubborn, too stubborn to stop and too stubborn to call for backup even though we know we need to. We're too stubborn to fall to our knees, to give into the desire to let darkness take over, both of us standing unsteadily, weaving this way and that, too tired to float, too tired to pounce. I watch her as closely as I know she is watching me, how she gulps, tongue flicking out to wet her dry lips, fingers curling weakly around that silly weapon of hers. She plants her feet on the ground firmly, stands up as straight as she can make herself. I laugh dryly, forcing myself to rise from the earth once more, my own fingers curling around the handles of my weapons.

But at this rate I know I will fall. I should leave now, make some sharp comment and just go, but I find myself wondering how horrible it would be if all of this just ended, if I was defeated by her. And that makes me burn a little brighter.

If anyone will be backing down it will be her.

We begin again, an intricate dance, weaving in and out, striking and shielding. She grows messier and messier as do I, and finally she stumbles, shoulders slumping and eyes growing tired.

I should let her fall into my weapons, truly a wicked way to die. I would be able to watch the light leave her eyes.

But I am weak, my weapons tossed to the side, arms open to her, taking her in as she falls. I curl my arms around her, holding her close, reveling in the feel of her face pressed into the crook of my neck, her breath coming fast, hot through the fabric of my shirt. She will regain her senses soon enough, realize that she must leave, that she is now in her weakest state once more, no super-human powers to protect her, so I must soak up the moment while I can. Try to memorize the curve to the small of her back, the strawberry scent to her hair.

Try not to think of all of the ways I could end her life right now, right in this very moment.

Try not to think of all of the ways I could steal her away, so very easily.

She fits so perfectly against me, luckily that's enough to be the center of my thoughts. How can she not see what I do? How can she not see that we are made for each other? Perhaps her brain is fogged like the rest of them; I know it must be.

She withdraws with as little resistance as I can bring myself to give her. She stands before me for a moment, eyeing me warily with eyes that have turned chocolate and cheeks that are still flushed, from the contact or the fight, I don't know. I do know what I hope it is from.

She takes another step back and before I can stop myself I have her by the wrist. She rears back, ready to strike, but I plow on. "Ichigo, don't go yet." Her own hand freezes, fingers curled, ready to scratch. She doesn't carry it out, much to my surprise, instead she lowers her hand, slowly letting the tension leave her shoulders but that wariness in her eyes doesn't go.

She looks down at my hand, fingers still curled tightly around her wrist, her hand curled into a fist. I take the hint, for once, and release her. She doesn't run, she continues to stand before me, searching my face for something and I search for any clue of what she is thinking in return. The moments drag on and on and finally her brow furrows and she takes another step back. It occurs to me that I have no clue how long we have been standing here, I've been too focused on her to notice how the sun is dipping low in the sky, still not enough to paint it orange but it's getting there.

"I have to go," she says firmly but there's a note of uncertainty there that she cannot hide from me. She takes another step back, too afraid to turn her back to me.

"Goodbye," I reply weakly and I can't help but feel that I'm saying goodbye to something more.


End file.
